Of Skipping Stones and Unresolved Regrets
by TehPrimeraHaruoka
Summary: Nine-year-old Noctis Lucis Caelum, the heir apparent to the throne of Lucis, only has one thing on his mind; the trip to Leide his Uncle Cor had promised him. It didn't particularly matter that his walking was still a bit wobbly or that he kept having strange dreams that not even Carbuncle could chase away, he was going to see those Anak if it killed him. (Crossposted to Ao3)
1. Chapter 1

Cor Leonis was a man who had seen many things in his lifetime.

He had been fighting wars since before his voice had smoothened itself out from the ravages of puberty, had seen cities become cloaked in ash and steel and drown under billows of smoke and mocking red cloth whose intersecting dragons revelled in the blood that spilled into the soils of Eos. During his journeys, he had met many a great man, and had watched many more give their lives to protect their pride and their home. He had already lived through the rise and fall of one king of Lucis and was currently serving at the side of another all whilst looking on as the future monarch grew into his own before his eyes. Despite his experience, all of his training, all of his years of service and blood and pride could have never prepared him for the display in front of him.

Noctis Lucis Caelum, the very small, very much nine year old heir apparent of Lucis was regarding him with every inch of severity in his diminutive body. His blazing blue eyes were resolute, steady in a way Cor had thought impossible in the willowy child and his posture was impeccable; proof that the hours of etiquette and posture lessons with his advisor had stuck despite whatever outward aversion the little prince had displayed. In his tiny fingers (and it would be remiss of Cor to not point out the trembling of the frail digits) was a relatively thin notebook which Cor rather intimately knew was stuffed cover to cover with graceless scribbles and indistinguishable doodles of what rather loosely resembled the monsters and beasts that called the fields of Leide their home.

He was also standing. His legs were wobbling, struggling to support the weight of the boy who had quickly crossed the wide corridor to intercept Cor, but he was standing never-the-less. The Marshal noted, with an absent sort of pride, that there was neither Ignis nor the gleaming white crutches that had become a familiar sight anywhere within view, cementing the fact that Noctis had indeed walked all on his own, _was standing_ all on his own for the first time in months. It warmed him right to his frigid heart, a smattering of something that felt far too saccharine to be even remotely acceptable as he gazed down at Noctis, but that uncomfortable burst of definitely-not-paternal-joy was quite effectively tempered by Noctis' stern expression.

Cor took the chance to study the rest of youth before him. The velcro brace on his knee was much more understated than the garish thing Regis had taken to wearing and through the creases of his t-shirt, the collar of which was suspiciously damp, Cor could see the small bulge of his back brace. Noctis looked frail, looked as though the folds of his clothing would swallow him but despite his trembling and the pain he was no doubt fighting through, there he was. Looking at Cor with determination firmly set into the frame of those almost insultingly thin shoulders.

"You promised."

Had Cor been a lesser man, he would've flinched. He still hadn't adjusted to Noctis' subdued voice, still expected to hear that chirping tone that brushed against the edges of an excited shout whenever Noctis opened his mouth because the boy had always been nothing if not exuberant. Looking down at him now, it didn't take an expert to see that the Noctis of now was a shell of his former self, a shade that had whitened his already porcelain skin and weighed the curve of his shoulders until they pressed too close together. This Noctis, the boy dressed all in Lucian black with a notebook as his only support and a mettle that burned away at any reclusive trait in those tempest eyes, was a new person, the strong epitaph to a youth who had no doubt died in that Marilith attack and he had come to make Cor answer for his transgressions.

If Cor could remember what said transgression was though, that would be nice too.

He had to fight the urge to kneel, knew from the bow of those childish lips that Noctis wouldn't appreciate any gesture that could be misconstrued as patronising, yet he couldn't help the slight confusion that wove its way into his voice unbidden, "Excuse me?"

Noctis glared up at him, a proper glare complete with a scowl and everything, and repeated himself slowly, a tone that clearly betrayed how much of an idiot he thought Cor was in that moment, "You promised you would take me to see the Anak crossing in Leide if I could walk by March." The boy's expression eased a bit as he averted his eyes, the force that was previously behind his words draining as his nerves sank their way back around Noctis' throat, "It's February," he mumbled, "Did you forget?"

Ah.

Cor had, in fact, forgotten.

He could hardly blame himself for his words slipping his mind however. The promise had been made in a hasty attempt to convince a quivering prince who cried for his father to stop the pain-to stop watching while they hurt him- to continue with the arduous task of physical therapy and rehabilitation. Cor had whispered it to him after a particularly terrible session, one that had ended in Noctis burning half a room with a fire born of self-preservation and hefty insurance fees for the saint of a woman who was heading Noctis' rehab, but he hadn't given much thought to it. Given Noctis' aversion to the therapy, his newfound timidity and the extensiveness of the damage to his back and legs, Cor had assumed that the child would take the full term of eighteen months to get back on his feet and had let that be the end of it. He had never mentioned the promise again, and Noctis had never seemed any more enthused at the prospect of therapy. Evidently, Cor had missed something major because there he was, demanding his prize for his hard work.

The Marshal looked down at Noctis, studying his posture with a new goal in mind. His feet were steady despite fine tremors around his thighs and hips. The dark circles that were carved under Noctis' bright eyes were tell enough that the boy was going through great pains to simply keep himself upright. He really wanted this, had worked himself to the bone for a chance to see the tall Anaks that had for some reason, always enchanted him despite them being such an all around unremarkable animal, and to have all of that dedication amount to what would most certainly seem like nothing in Noctis' eyes would be, amongst a litany of other things, a disappointment.

Cor was a great many things; a hellraiser, a commander, a warrior, a heathen, but he was not, under any circumstance, a disappointment.

He allowed himself a sigh and finally knelt to Noctis' level, keeping his hands to himself despite the longing to ruffle the child's scrappy black hair, "So it seems. Congratulations, Noctis. You've done well."

There was an odd expression that crossed Noctis' face then, a genuine surprise followed swiftly with a burning blush that forced the child to bury his head lower. Curious, had no one congratulated the boy on his efforts?

Cor neatly ignored the alien warmth of emotion in the pit of his stomach at the prospect of being the one Noctis wished to show his progress to first and continued speaking, his voice unwavering despite the unexpectedness of Noctis' demands, "You still need a bit more time to rest. When you can walk for long stretches of time, then we'll go to Leide."

Noctis looked contemplative for a moment before he leaned forward and gently threw his arms around Cor's muscled neck, "Thank you." he whispered, his voice thick with what Cor knew was poorly hidden pain, "Next month then?"

Cor sighed, properly adjusting his prince's trembling frame in his arms and allowing himself to place a heavy hand in the dark hair that pricked against his exposed cheek. "Next month," he confirmed.

Noctis relaxed then, content to let Cor carry him back to his room now that he had proven himself. As Cor strided the vast halls of the palace, the weight of Lucis' future snuggled against his breast, all he could think of was the fact that he had just voluntarily signed himself over to unmentionable levels of utterly fucked.

He could already hear Clarus' smarmy laughter ringing in his ears.


	2. Chapter 2

Cor would be the first to admit that while he didn't outright fear Regis, he did have a healthy respect for him.

Outside of the obvious, what with Regis being the king of all Lucis and thus deserving acknowledgement as a bare minimum for his dedication to the people of Insomnia and the wider continent of Eos, Cor had had the rare pleasure of knowing Regis personally. Despite what the tabloids and press conferences would one believe, there was an actual person beneath the heavy crown and weighted robes and tight, diplomatic smiles. Regis was a man of disgusting cunning and unexpected vindictiveness tempered by a heart that bled so liberally that it was a small wonder that he hadn't drowned in his own sympathy ages ago. He was dutiful and industrious, a king who listened to his people and did whatever he could to keep them safe under the banner of Lucis and his magic. He had earned Cor's fealty with long nights spent on a smouldering battlefield, healing fatal afflictions with muttered words that conveyed images of civilisations long lost to the march of time. There was power in his every motion, a restraint that spoke less of tightly maintained magic that was just begging for an excuse to be freed and more of control born of an inner peace that awed as much as it perplexed.

Regis was a worthy king, a fearless ruler and a man of honour. Above even that, he was Cor's friend; a battle brother, an advisor and an eager ear to his concerns and regards.

None of this mattered when it came to his son.

Wherever the crown prince was concerned, Regis became a besotted, conservative fool. Cor was half convinced his Majesty's intellect had slipped out of his head and died with Aulea all those years ago because to this day, Regis' decisions concerning his boy were nothing but a continuous string of baffling, gold-plated handicaps. It was, perhaps, one of the only issues where Cor was malcontent to stand idly by and await orders (not that he was particularly good at being obedient in the first place). Naturally, Cor understood why Regis would deign to swaddle his only heir in bubble-wrap, could even be sympathetic to some nebulous degree, but Noctis was fast growing and that incessant coddling was suffering him terribly.

Of course, unfortunately, Cor couldn't say such in so many words.

Cor did not fear Regis, but he did have some iota of self-preservational instinct left in the annals of his battle-addled brain. To request permission to take His Majesty's son past the walls of Insomnia-nay past even the stairs of the Citadel when he had just recovered from a nigh debilitating injury was asking to be arrested on principle.

Regis would do it too. Cor had been arrested before for lesser charges.

Even before the Marilith, the king's protective streak was legendary, running long and hot as Ravatogh itself. Now that such an incident had occured beyond the wall, where the light of the Crystal didn't shine, Noctis would be lucky if he could so much as taste imported food again, nevermind bodily leave the palace before his thirtieth birthday. Such paranoia would perhaps wane with time but Cor highly doubted His Grace would be ready to let the little princeling out of his sight for many years to come. Honestly, given the circumstances, he could not fault him for such a thing.

This would be the second time Noctis would cause unimaginable grief to the king's soul; the second time in less than a decade that Regis was forced to watch as a portion of his heart lay dying before him, slipping away in his thick, useless fingers. Noctis was the Chosen King, a child fated to die to cleanse the world of a cynical plague- an affliction that poisoned man and beast alike. It was by the light of Eos' cruel and capricious gods that this prophecy was brought into existence and Cor thought it nothing but empty platitude spouted by lifeless figureheads with nothing to lose. The self-same 'illustrious' gods of Eos had done nothing to save their 'beloved' as he lay dying on the still burning pitch beneath him. Those gods had been content to let Regis trade away his life for their people, the same people their Chosen One would eventually give his life to save, all while they stood back and watched from their gilded thrones on high.

It was a wicked thing. A relationship that was such a loose sketch of symbiosis that on some days Cor could quite clearly see just where that line blurred and wandered off into the territory of parasitism.

His king had mastered dealing with the whims and cruelties of the gods but Noctis hadn't even been informed of his part on the chessboard of history. Maybe it was absurd of Cor to assume that he could attempt to fill in those gaps- hubristic even, but Noctis was as much his family as his idiot of a father was. At this point, Cor had already made his bed in the mess of a promise he had made to the princeling, all that was left to do was to convince his stubborn King to let him take Noctis into Leide without getting temporarily banned from the Citadel.

=w=

In truth, Cor could already predict the way Regis would react to such a brazen request. His Majesty would get that tight look about his eyes, would dig his fingers into the leather of his armrest and meet Cor's words with half-caustic, incredibly overt orders to 'stop poking his nose into matters that didn't concern him' whatever that could possibly mean. Regis was such an incorrigible ass when he got into the right mood; in between the obstinate Council that was having far too much fun fighting Regis' wish to spend more time helping Noctis through his rehab and the worry that was eating him alive, Cor was almost ninety-nine percent certain that Regis would be all too pleased to take out some of his frustrations on Cor and his big mouth.

The time for deliberation was fast approaching its end.

Clarus stood guard as usual, already appraising him from his station in front of the lacquered study door, his hawkish eyes twinkling with a vivacity his hardened features wouldn't allow. Cor wouldn't put it past the man to already know the reason behind his hesitance to enter (for he had been dithering about the hall while he collected his thoughts for the past five minutes and such nervousness could only mean Noctis was somehow involved) and in true Amicitia fashion, had left him to suffer until Cor verbally requested assistance.

Cor pinned the Shield with a hard stare, "Clarus-"

The Amicitia held his hand up, the loose fabric of his sleeve falling in graceful rivulets around his muscular wrist, "I'm not getting involved."

The Marshal folded his hands across the broad length of his chest, his stance solid despite the dismissal, "You don't even know what it's about."

Clarus huffed, a dignified sound despite its scolding flavour, "It's about Noctis. It's always about Noctis." He mirrored Cor's posture, holding his head high to emphasize his point, "Do you honestly think I've missed your snipes at His Highness in the past days? Whatever you have to say can wait."

It was an odd thing to experience a dressing down from Clarus Amicitia of all people, especially when Cor hadn't gotten one of his friend's patented 'your issues are politically insignificant, bugger off' speeches in quite a few years, but it didn't abate the brief swell of irritation that rushed through Cor's head. It was a recurring theme amongst the upper echelons of the Citadel to dismiss matters concerning the prince as folly. With the memory of the Marilth so close to the surface of everyone's memory, it was an overwhelmingly popular view to see little Noctis Lucis Caelum as more liability than proper heir.

That view was the reason Regis was so tied up in matters of 'grave political importance', it was the reason behind Noctis' newfound aversion to his father and it was fast becoming the number one reason why Cor was considering hogtying his Majesty and illustrating his point to him, treason be damned to hell.

"_Nothing_ could possibly be more important than his son," Cor all but hissed, "Especially not when they still haven't decided on what they want to do about him."

Clarus' eyes were sharp as they stared at him. For a moment it looked as though he wanted to give Cor a good thrashing, or at the very least, a well deserved backhand into the nearest wall. They stood in tense quiet for a moment, both taking a breath to cool themselves. It was almost comical how quickly they could grate on each other's senses. Clarus was as stone faced as they came, yet Cor could still get him to the point of visible frustration with only a few words.

For once, Cor felt no satisfaction in that power.

"They want him to remarry," Clarus finally said.

The spitting _'what?!'_ left Cor's mouth before he had the chance to halt it. Remarry?! Regis? The man who was so lost in his grief over Aulea that he still wrote letters to her in the silence of his study?! The very idea spat on everything Regis was as a father and a lover, nevermind the fact that Regis' heart was wholly occupied by his stifled, awkward love for his son.

"Regis would never," Cor found himself saying. Clarus' expression did not waver. Cor felt distinctly like he had taken the business end of a greatsword to his stomach.

The silence that rushed to fill the space between them was thick enough to asphyxiate a beast.

"Who?" he finally heard himself say.

"Sylva."

There was… nothing Cor could possibly say to that. Permanent ties to Tenebrae in the form of a marital union was just the bolster that Lucis needed, nevermind the joining of both king and Oracle would provide a desperately needed national morale boost. It made an almost insulting amount of sense and even if Regis didn't do it now, eventually Noctis would bear the burden instead.

Cor was familiar enough with his king to know precisely where his thoughts would be on that matter.

Clarus' smooth voice filled Cor's ears, a neutrality in his tone that belied just how consternated the entire matter made him, "Consider carefully whether you want to disturb him or not. I won't stop you, but he's been in a foul mood as of late."

With good reason, honestly.

His piece said, Clarus resumed his position at the door. It was obvious now that there was far more impeding a trip to Leide than Regis being a mother hen. Still, more pressing than Noctis' childishness, more even than Regis' overbearing nature was the seemingly insignificant fact that Noctis would ultimately assume that Cor had lied to him.

There weren't many people Noctis could implicitly trust as a prince.

It was a side effect of the titles that followed him, poisoning the air around him with expectation built upon entitlement. Even when the child was in the prime of his exuberance, he had understood that the mouths of men spoke nothing but honeyed words. In a sense, that was the purpose behind introducing him to Ignis at such a delicate age. Ignis was meant to teach him what true companionship was emblematic of, a familiar face at a familiar age who would stand by Noctis through thick and thin until the young prince hit his blessed age and received his Shield. No one could've predicted that the young Tenebraen immigrant would so instinctively cling to the divides of duty and class. No one had considered the effects Ignis' careful distance had on young Noctis.

When Cor had first met the boy, properly met the boy that is, Noctis was a plucky four-year-old who saw the world as a never-ending cloister of challenges. He had seen Cor's mountainous frame and immediately latched onto his pants, squirming and struggling to find leverage in the smooth surface of Cor's pressed trousers so he could scale the length of his legs and 'conquer the giant'. He had barely made it past the loops of Cor's belt when Ignis had neatly stepped in, bodily removing Noctis with his pudgy little hands and _bowing_ to Cor while apologies escaped from his blushing lips.

Throughout the rest of their meeting, Noctis had made to ascend Cor's wide shoulders numerous times, but before his impulse could become tangible action, he would look to Ignis for permission. It was a pitiful irony really, the one person put into Noctis' life to ease the pangs of loneliness brought about by Noctis' station was also the person who made Noctis the most aware of his position in the social hierarchy. It was clear that the princeling harboured no ill-will towards Ignis' particularness, so much so that when Ignis finally allowed Noctis to climb Cor (with the Marshal's permission of course) Noctis thanked him before asking Ignis to help him do the impossible.

(Cor had been mildly disappointed when Noctis did not attempt to scale his limbs even once during their second meeting. The young heir had gotten that look about him a few times but, just as before, had reigned himself in for Ignis' sake. Only after Ignis had stepped out of the room to chase down one of the attendants for tea did Noctis step forward and beckon Cor to his level, conspiratorially whispering that 'Iggy would get in trouble if Noctis broke something trying to climb Mount Marshal' and that 'he would try again when he was sure he could definitely reach the top'.)

Perhaps it was embarrassing to admit now, but _that_ had been the moment where Cor had decided that he would protect that child with his everything.

It was a feeling that drove him to volunteer to be the boy's bodyguard when he was revealed to be the Chosen King and it was a decision he had never regretted.

For Cor it was a matter of pride married to his innate sense of principle. It was the unwillingness to give up because Noctis did not know of the messy political strings attached to his father's every limb, and such innocence should be allowed to flourish for as long as it could. It was his need to see his charge smile again.

Cor brushed past Clarus, placing his hand on the doorknob before briefly pausing, "Your son is around Ignis' age, isn't he?"

He didn't need to look at his friend to feel the weight of his parental stare, "What of it?"

The Marshal felt himself smirk before he could help himself, cracking the door open without knocking, "No reason."

Noctis would see those Anak. He deserved that much at the very least.


End file.
